End of the Affair
by isaytoodlepip
Summary: AU Slash RL/SB. In a world where homosexuality is forbidden, how far will Remus Lupin let himself fall in order to keep the man he loves?


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A/n: This is a SLASH piece, RL/SB, and a warning to all: it's not very happy. In fact, it is decidedly depressing. It is an AU taking place before the first war with Voldemort in a world where homosexuality is a crime punishable by imprisonment in Azkaban. And this fic does not portray Sirius Black in a flattering light, but you must trust me on this one fact, that I love Sirius and I know that this is out of character. 

A/N part 2: I should be posting a happier RL/SB story tonight, if that's more your cup o' tea. It is mine. 

A/N finale: The theme for this story is taken from the movie version of "End of the Affair", which is by Graham Greene, me thinks. OK, shutting up.

I am a jealous man. All the people I love would laugh to hear me say that, if they weren't dead.

This is a diary of hate. Mine, yours, the world's. And I wish I could tell you whom it is I hate, but I can only write and remember and maybe try to forget.

How young we were, how far from innocent, when we first clapped eyes on each other and felt something more than what was allowed. Twelve years old. Didn't understand what it would entail, but we knew what it meant. It meant five years or more in Azkaban, and a life ever after in damnation. You always said prison was the worst of it. And I always told you that was only because you could never look ahead five days, let alone five years. I used to wonder what would have become of us, if you'd only listened. Until I stopped believing that anything would have changed, for either of us.

For four years, we were able to laugh. In secret corridors that we were forced to uncover. In abandoned classrooms that we were forced to occupy. We were too young to be doing what we were, even if it weren't for the laws against us. No twelve-year-old should be able to use his mouth in the ways you did. No twelve-year-old should have been able to speak the words I spoke in those minutes and the hours in between. But maybe we knew that those four years were all the laughter we were allowed. After that, hate was inevitable. And maybe that's why you could never look me in the eye after you slipped back into your straight clothes and slinked out the door, looking every bit the common criminal that we both were.

I know I shouldn't have done it. I knew at the time as well, but I couldn't stop myself. Night after night, you'd say you loved me. But only at night, and only when I was wrapped around you so tightly that I left you no choice. During the day, when the sun could see our guilt, you fucked girl after girl in our room, the voice of your father screaming "Choose!" in every gasp and groan you elicited. Even mine, when I walked in on you day after day, because I couldn't help myself. So when you chose, when you told the entire house who you were marrying after graduation, I openly laughed at you. I told you that you were too young. Sixteen is too young to be settling on a bride. And then that night, before you could avoid my eyes and run away like always, I blew my world apart. 

"You can't leave me, Sirius. If you marry that whore, I'll tell the world about everything that goes on in this room." I was only able to say it so calmly because it would hurt you all the more. Using your deepest fear against you. I should have expected that you'd use mine right back.

James almost abandoned you when he thought you had tried to kill Severus. Imagine what he would have done if he knew the truth. Severus was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, asking the right question. All you had to do was point him in my direction, and I would have been executed for his murder if James hadn't turned up. I can't help but laugh at myself now. Having seen how eager you were to kill me over a simple thing like the threat of incarceration, I should have been able to stop you years later. I should have told the Headmaster everything. But I couldn't send you to that place, even after you tried to kill me. I pitied you too much for failing.

Two years later, you were married to your chosen one, living in an old manor house that you made sure had plenty of secret corridors where I could hide. We told ourselves all was forgiven, we smiled, we drank champagne off each other's bodies and we got drunk off each other's seed. And you even looked me in the eyes while you were leaving. Every time you were leaving. Then you'd go back upstairs and sleep in her arms, wake up in her arms, and I'd be left damning every step of that staircase for taking you away from me. Every spring of that mattress for supporting her intrusion. Every drop of her tea that you swallowed. Every drop of laughter from your lips that she inspired. And every time you said you loved me, because all I could hear was "for the moment."

Who knows what would have happened to us if there had not been a war? It is just another series of "what ifs" that I no longer have the heart to ask. As it was, you needed to face death every day, if only to face me at night. And I needed to be there, waiting for you to come to me for comfort. And when you didn't come, and I got a call from her saying that you had been seriously wounded, the jealousy at knowing she was with you, holding the hand that should only have been touching me, inspired me to pray. I prayed to anything or anyone who pitied me enough to listen, and I made a promise that I would give you up, that I would give you to _her_, if only God would let you live. And when you woke up a week later, I screamed to the sky that God could be damned, but I left you just the same.

You begged me to come back. You would follow me into pubs, into bookshops, constantly whispering in my ears. "She's not home. We'd have the house to ourselves. I can get away for the weekend. I know a place where they'll look the other way." The only thing I could do was tell you the truth. "I love you," I would say, slipping my hand into yours. That was the only way to get you to leave me be, and I tried not to cry every time that familiar cross of panic, hatred, and disgust crossed your face as you quickly pulled away, furtively looked around to see if anyone had noticed, and slipped away like the stranger you should have been. But this was only effective in public. At Peter's, at Lily's and James', you'd still beg of me, demand of me, and I knew I shouldn't have done it, but again it didn't stop me. I went back to you. Two months later, God made sure I kept my promise.

Everyone has their theories about what happened that Halloween night, and in that Muggle village. I sometimes try to believe them, to agree that you were buying the Dark Lord's favor with the blood of your best friends. But then I remember how worried you were, those final days. How you would shoot pointed glances at our friends, whispering frantically with your eyes, "They know! Remus, they know!" I remember that night in September when I was audibly dreaming about sweeping you off your feet and doing a tango down the middle of High Street. You snarled at me that no one was worth Azkaban. "I'd sell my soul to Satan before setting foot in that place." Well, that teaches you not to bargain with the devil, Sirius. You sold your soul and look where it got you.

I am a jealous man. I envy the Dementors of Azkaban. I envy their closeness to you. Their possession of you. Their ability to make you scream and cry and beg and whimper and remember every bad thing in your life. Because I know what you thought of us. You were ashamed and embarrassed and every time you orgasmed, the repulsion rolled off you in waves. So maybe I'm with you now night * and * day. And maybe now you can call out my name, if only because you will suffer no more for it. Yes, I envy the Dementors for freeing you from those hidden rooms, those whited sepulchers that lined the halls of the house where she still lives, making another man her own. I envy them for freeing you when I never could.

I said in the beginning that this is a diary of hate, but even I can't tell if that is true. I am a master of wearing another man's face. A man who has no curses to hide. And really, whom can I hate? You? None of this would have happened if I were capable of hating you. Maybe I hate God. For taking you away from me. Or for ever giving you back. I can't say if that's true either. I can't say I even believe in Him. So I'll leave Him to you, Sirius. Surely a god who would do this to us is terrible enough for you to remember when the Dementors come. Yes Sirius, cling to your God. Remember Him as you remember me as you remember all the times you could never look me in the eye. And as God fucks you over, look into His face with all the love that you still have for Him, and see if He ever looks back. Listen to Him tell you He loves you, and hear only "for the moment". And Sirius, please come back to me, so I can tell you that this is the end of the affair.


End file.
